Outlier of the Set of Humanity
by Iwantthatcoat
Summary: A continuation of the RvB Universe. An exploration of an asexual/sexual relationship dynamic. Sherlock is healing from his sexual abuse and is asserting more control over his own sexuality in his relationship with John.
1. Chapter 1

John had been watching Sherlock busying himself amongst the test tubes, flasks and burners for quite some time now, both of them having abandoned the morning paper and most of breakfast.

"I love watching you work. It's like, like watching a tiger slink through jungle, a wild Sherlock in its natural habitat. And it's right here in my flat."

"I am glad that is your analogy of choice. I thought, having observed me at work for the better part of an hour, you were going to say something about our relationship being like a chemical reaction. Two distinct elements come together…" he held a test tube up to the light to examine it for sediment.

"Well, no, but now that you mention it… we kind of are. Tired analogy though, love and chemistry. Even _I_ think it's tedious. Anyway, we are not some Sodium and Chloride that mix together and become harmless. More like steel, maybe?"

"Mmmm. This is why analogies usually fail. It's not like we form a new person. For the literary mind it's like a 'Sherlock and John' versus a…" he looked thoroughly displeased, "'Johnlock'."

"Heh. The Age of Enlightenment is just not your style, eh?"

The displeasure morphed into confusion.

"Did your family pay for your tuition fees at Oxford, Sherlock, because they really should have gotten a refund. I won't bother to explain who John Locke is. You'll only delete it again."

"Cambridge, two years, but I preferred to develop my own coursework in Consulting Detective Studies. It wasn't offered as a degreed programme."

"Did you ever consider being a police officer? Even as a child?"

"No." He grabbed a pipette. "Policemen rescue kittens from trees, John."

"That's firemen. And that doesn't really happen, does it?"

Sherlock put down the pipette and closed his eyes briefly. "Daily Mail, 26 July." He picked it up again and continued to work and talk. "They help people. They reinforce the rules of society. Mycroft would have made an excellent police officer. If he could have passed the fitness exam, that is. Society can take a running leap as far as I'm concerned. I only need you."

"That has got to be the most romantic thing I have ever heard you say, Sherlock." He abandoned his tea and walked over to Sherlock, who held off adding a new reagent just long enough to accept a brief kiss.

"Kisses. They come with the romance?"

"For me, yeah. Feelings, closeness, closer-ness, impossibly close closeness. Kisses."

"Compound. Solution. Merged." He added the reagent and swirled the tube.

It was so easy to talk to Sherlock when he was working like this. It was like his brain was fully engaged and words just seemed to spring forth. When he wasn't working on anything at all, conversation was nearly impossible.

"I suppose I'd prefer a mixture model while we are still attempting analogies… where the components are together, but still maintain their own degree of individuality," he continued.

John listened carefully.

"I don't want to merge into one being, John."

"Are we talking about sex now, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed. "I think we've passed the realm of the merely symbolic, yes."

"Well, they say every 7 seconds it's likely to be on my mind."

"John, think about that… please. Assuming you are sleeping a good portion of any 24-hour period… not that you're not still thinking about sex when you're in a purely subconscious state, but, as it's not easily quantifiable, let's just count waking time… that would be roughly 16 hours. That amounts to 8,000 distinct thoughts about sex. Even Bonobos don't think about sex that much. Though the results appear to be quite well known, the methodology of that study was flawed. It did not measure how often men thought about sex; it merely measured how often men _thought_ they thought about sex. Using vastly improved research techniques, the median was determined to be 18 times a day, with a range of between 1 and 388."

"So you are closer to 1, and you don't want to merge. No beast with two backs."

"I know that one."

"Oh, so no refund necessary then."

"Inconclusive," he smiled, warm and genuine. "I read Shakespeare long before Cambridge. I didn't know how to delete at that time. Doing so retroactively does not work well. I just choose not to store it at the time it's first processed."

"But you kept statistics on how often men think about sex?"

He looked just a tad uncomfortable. "For two reasons. Firstly, a reminder that there are few things more dangerous to humanity than pseudoscience that merely reinforces stereotyping. Before you know it, they will bring back phrenology." He waved a hand casually in the air "'The criminal class has a different-shaped head' and so on. And, secondly, as a clear reminder that I need to see things as the average person sees them, not as I do. That I am an outlier of the set of humanity. That I should always consider how any sequence of events would affect the average mind."

John smirked. Like Baskerville. The average mind only seemed to concern Sherlock when he was externally showing visible contempt, while internally craving reassurance that the feelings which occasionally presented themselves were acceptable, and not inherent flaws. A beautifully evolved defense mechanism. A topic change was in order.

"And the solar system?"

"John, why are you so obsessed with the solar system? I don't know why I deleted it. Maybe I just never learned it? I don't know! Maybe I was sick that day. Maybe I was observing the teacher instead of listening to her prattle on. Can we talk about sex again instead, please?"

John laughed. An invitation to continue the discussion, wrapped in a humorous bow. Sherlock could have just ended the conversation right there. Was he concerned about something?

"If you want to…?" Sherlock added, quietly.

"To have sex?" John responded, knitting his brows in confusion.

"No, I meant… well… yes... I should expect you'd want to do that too, but I meant if you want to talk about it."

"Yes. I do. I want to try and understand."

"It feels, good, to talk about sex." Sherlock had stopped tinkering with the experiment, and was facing John. He was considering his words very carefully. "It reminds me that it has… less, oppressive power, than I used to afford it."

John nodded.

"I suppose you could say I don't like the exchange. Of fluids. Of sweat."

"It is unsanitary?"

"No, not exactly. It is obtrusive."

"To your sense of self?"

"Yes. I don't wish to combine with someone. Taking care of needs, yes. As they arise. "

_As they arise_. John fought back a grin.

"Oh, dear God. No pun intended John. Honestly, what is it like in your head? How do you ever get anything accomplished!" He took a drop of his solution and deposited it in a Petri dish. "Thankfully, I am not constantly plagued by the distraction. But I do truly enjoy this," he gestured between John and himself.

"The companionship?"

"I consider this romance."

"This is conversation."

"Do you see me converse with others like this? This, is…" he paused and raised his eyebrows, "…my sex."

The two words hit John at his core. "Christ, you really shouldn't do that to me."

"Do what?"

"Turn me on in two words or less."

Sherlock stopped working. "I did?"

"Yes. Yes, you did. You do."

"I'm sorry, John."


	2. Sorry

"For?"

"I didn't mean to. Well, the fact that I _do_ is, good. Good that I'm someone you want. But it must be endlessly frustrating… to have someone who makes you feel… all… this..." Sherlock searched for words, and sighed.

John completed the thought. "Want? Which is good, remember?"

"Yes, want. To inspire that. Powerful, certainly, but a bit dangerous. Despite my unfavorable track record, I'm not trying to be manipulative. I can't really talk about this without causing, reactions for you, it appears."

"We can talk about sex without the expectation of it, Sherlock."

"I'm aware. It's just that I didn't mean to set you off." He returned to his sample.

John wasn't sure whether or not to be insulted. After a brief silence to sort it out, John chose to continue the discussion. "Am I pressuring you in any way?"

"No, of course not," he added more drops from a pipette, "but if it's something I cause, I should be held accountable."

"For my physical reactions?"

"For causing them, yes," now comparing the sediment in the Petri dish sample to that in the tube, "and for doing nothing about it."

"If you did, I would be very disappointed."

Sherlock turned towards John again, looking concerned. "I know our first time was disappointing, John, but it wouldn't be like that again."

"That's not what I meant. I meant that ...not _physically_ disappointing, not… not disappointed in what you were capable of _offering_. I meant… disappointed because I know you are not the least bit interested right now. It would have been the last thing on your mind."

"It is seldom on my mind at all. But that doesn't mean I would not choose to partake in sexual relations."

"I know. That… confuses me, I admit. But I'm willing to trust you. That whatever you get out of it makes it worth doing for you, at least sometimes. But not now. And I'm sorry."

"Sorry that I affect you?"

"Sorry to have been so flippant about it."

"Don't be. It… is nice to know. That I am…"

John interrupted. "Come on, you must know you are attractive, Sherlock."

"To some. For a night. Not for a lifetime. I'm exceedingly difficult to love. The kinds of relationships I participated in, I don't think it much mattered how attractive I was, just so long as I was, effective. I don't blame them. I know what it is, to merely seek release."

"As opposed to being intimate."

"Yes. And with you, I want both, but not at the same time. And," Sherlock smiled as the conversation grew easier, "not during the same act."

"Because sex, penetrative sex, at least, is not intimate?"

Sherlock hesitated. This was where he was nothing like John. Perhaps nothing like most people. "That's merely getting my body to react according to its wiring. Satisfying base needs when they are present. I see little intimacy in that. In that sense, anything about my partner is irrelevant. But, sometimes, at least I think sometimes, with you, I can focus on what you feel, and I can feel it too… just for a little while, before it's gone. But, when it's there, it is a connection. I suppose that's what it is people are made to feel… sexual people. But I have to work for it. It's difficult to maintain focus. When I truly want to connect, it's through my mind first, and then everything about my partner becomes highly relevant. It's two completely different processes." Sherlock was still unsure if John could understand. "My libido is its own entity."

John looked up at him, features symapthetic. "Some would claim that indicates a mind-body split. A classic dissociative abuse issue."

Sherlock shook his head. "Maybe, if it was a coping mechanism. A way of denying the body its needs. But I am supplying it with its needs freely. I don't deny or oppress. I don't think it bad or wrong, just, an inconvenient chemical surge. I've not been in a true relationship before, so I have not yet explored possible patterns or predictability. They are not the needs of my mind. My mind needs…" Sherlock began clearing away the remnants of the experiment, pleased with the results. "Well, someone fascinating, and solid, and capable of telling me I'm an idiot." He faced John. "Did you know, no one has ever called me an idiot before? 'Freak', yes. But you called me an idiot on the first day we met. I was being one, too. Sex is not about love, but I can make it about love, I think. I can make it something I can use to express love. Like a tool, like learning a new language. I can use this to speak John. At least, I think I can. I have no problem using me to please you, so long as the focus is not on what I "need", in the physical sense. But I do have an occasional libido, John. And, during that time, the focus would be on what I need, too, physically. I don't know if it can work, to be able to connect with you as an expression of love and to be able to meet my physical needs simultaneously. I will need to consider it at length." He paused, for a moment, raised his eyebrows and gave John a quick smile, "No pun intended."

"Thinking about it won't let you know if it will work, Sherlock. We've yet to factor in you fulfilling your own needs and still being present."

"Well, thinking about it will provide me with a template of sorts."

"I don't feel very comfortable with this, Sherlock. Honestly, I think I'd rather not do it than set up parameter and a technique and a methodology."

"I want to try. When I next feel the need. It could work for us."

"OK. I'll think about it, too."


	3. A Case, and Identity

It was a simple problem, really, and Sherlock had told his client to expect to hear from him within the hour. Clearly, the woman who had sent all those romantic emails wasn't in danger… mainly because she didn't exist. Well, _someone_ existed; it just wasn't "Angela Hosmer."

That the two of them had met on a fan-based website (for "The Gasfitters' Ball", a tedious period drama) was plausible enough, but the number of things they had in common was startlingly high. Not quite as startlingly high as, let's say, the number of incidents of misrepresentation taking place on the Internet every minute, but startlingly high, nonetheless. Long ago, the cynical part of Sherlock's brain, which was, admittedly, a rather larger part, had concluded that no two persons could be perfectly made for each other. He glanced over at John and smiled; he had an amendment to make. Providence apparently did get it right from time to time… but it still required rather complex negotiations.

According to "Angela"- and he had been putting her name in mental quotes ever since Mary Sutherland first expressed to him her distress at the sudden lack of emails from her "close friend" (also quote-worthy) - the only thing keeping her from moving to London was that they both had a cat and perhaps the felines wouldn't get along. No doubt "Angela"'s cat was old, feeble, in poor health, and she'd surely come to London, surely move in with Mary. After the cat lost its battle with this cruel world. Any time now. And then, they would share a happy, presumably single-catted, life together.

Mary had been both surprised and relieved to hear Sherlock deliberately, yet casually, refer to "Angela" as her long distance-girlfriend instead of as her close friend, and she had become infinitely more forthcoming about her situation. She apologized for its complexity. Sherlock smiled, and commented on how life was infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent.

There had been something approaching a marriage of convenience between Mary and her much older (now deceased) husband. He had been married before while living in Australia, had had a son, even, but had divorced before moving to England in 2001. Both his ex-wife and his son, who his mother raised from infancy to despise the father who had abandoned them both, bitterly refused to acknowledge his very existence. Mary had been his secretary for over a year when Edward Sutherland approached her with a unique proposition. He wished to be married again, as he had explained to her, "for both professional and financial reasons." Mary had assumed Edward Sutherland was gay, though she never did ask directly, and she was unsure of her own sexuality at the time. Edward made no sexual advances. Years later, Mary had been the one seeking a divorce, willing to give up the convenience and financial stability of their marriage pact in order to be both true to herself and self-sufficient. She had taken only small, tentative steps, and Edward had still hoped she would reconsider, when he had died of a heart attack. Although they had remained completely supportive of each other while she had explored heading out on her own, when he died she was ashamed of the fact that she had inherited a large sum from his estate months after she had made her final decision to leave him… and had told no one about her recent financial gain.

That was why she was so confident Angela ("Angela") wasn't running a scam and had sought out Sherlock entirely due to fear for her safety when she mentioned a stalking ex, just before the emails abruptly stopped.

They had never met in person, but had had a few video chats. An overly-bundled "Angela" outside at a café: long brown hair, hat, scarf, and dark sunglasses under what must have been a blazingly bright, yet somehow remarkably cold, winter sun. She had explained her voice was still a bit raspy from a recent illness.

Really. How blind could someone be? In Mary's case, perhaps more than metaphorically. She was a bit of a recluse and was indeed near-sighted; her sleeves indicated she spent far too much time at the keyboard and her hunched shoulders supplemented that it was under fairly poor ergonomic conditions. He had been about to ask her if she found it difficult spending so much time on message boards because of her poor vision, and when was the last time she had her eyeglass prescription checked, but he thought better of it. It was irrelevant.

Internet misrepresentation, even fraud, was hardly worthy of his interest. It was easy enough to prove "Angela Hosmer" was non-existent, but his instincts told him there was something deeper at work, and, idly curious how quickly he could wrap up the loose ends, he agreed to look into the matter. Still, Sherlock was having difficulty focusing on the case. There was this odd pull away from his thoughts, as if something kept dragging him back to the physical plane. His body wanted his attention. He was a bit hungry, no doubt. He attempted to recall exactly when his last meal was. Well, toast and tea wouldn't hurt, regardless.

Fortunately, John had placed both items right in front of him moments before.

Toast. Tea. John.

Oh.

It wasn't as simple as cause and effect. It wasn't the mere sight of John, it was more what John had come to represent latching on to something within himself, drawing the pieces together. Interesting. He stopped and watched for a moment as John quietly nibbled on his toast in one hand and pecked at the keyboard with the other, and he purposely flooded his mind with images of him.

_John shuts the laptop and makes to leave the room, but instead comes up behind you, running his fingers through your hair just before grabbing the back of your head, yanking it backwards and claiming you, sucking a kiss on a freshly exposed bit of neck; John abandons the laptop mid-sentence, strides forward, straddles your chair and licks the corner of your mouth where specks of toast and tea remain_; _John stops typing and comes to collect the tea, but runs his hand across your chest instead, left nipple, then right, then down to your stomach, stopping just as he reaches your belt…_

Hmmm. Well, that hadn't changed much. No rush of lust accompanying the imagery, just the same continual dull ache that felt more like a tag at the back of his shirt begging to be removed than anything approximating pleasure. His instinct was to head to his room and simply take care of this annoying encroachment, like a weed in a garden, and get back to the Mary Sutherland case, but here it was, a passing moment of his sexuality manifesting itself. Surely he should try to nurture it… channel it properly… for John?

He slowly ran his hand along the silk dressing gown, feeling the fabric clinging to his thigh. Tactile sensations, more responsive. Better. Yes, this could work. _Don't let the fire go out, feed a little bit of oxygen into the flame_, and then he could, maybe… _what if you go over to John and close the laptop, eyes meeting in a heated stare and it is you who claims John's mouth. _Yes. Better_. Lick the edge of John's neck, graze his ear, and John lets out the tiniest, restrained groan. _And, yes, they were now becoming deeply physical, the sensations, and his hand had moved from his thigh to his cock of its own accord. And oh, that, that was something to savor. He had managed to control his own drive like a volume switch. He wondered if he could turn it back down again just as easily or if it had become too insistent, but decided that that was not going to be the purpose of this little experiment.

_Focus, now. Focus on what you feel. What you could feel. How you could use this, want to use this._ Another stroke against his pajama bottoms, and mmmm, yes. This was surprisingly good. Sitting here brushing his fingers against his hardening cock under the table, while John was reading the paper directly across from him. Control was all his, John was completely unaware, and he wanted so badly to reach out and touch him, to complete the circuit. A passing touch of his fingers, a foot under the table, any contact. This was… this was fascinating. He continued to stoke the flames… _you push John back from the table, and hear a gasp of surprise, completely welcome, you raise his jumper to lick down his stomach, undo his trousers, slide down his pants and _ohhhh he could feel heat to his cheeks now, his breathing coming faster, and this was absolutely perfect. He could do this. He closed his eyes. He could picture it now, removing John's pants, sliding a finger inside, opening him up, preparing him and, and then he would, he would do what? What would he feel? His focus shifted. Intermittent connection. Connection lost. He winced, disappointed.

Sutherland. So, who would have a vested interest in preventing Mary, hardly the social butterfly to begin with, from dating other people? Jilted lovers, unlikely there were any. Who would know about the inheritance, and how to best catch her attention… to use "Angela" rather than "Angelo"? _How simple. How utterly simple! Idiot!_ He strode past John, commandeering his laptop on the way and ignoring the cry of protest.

If she was kept from remarrying, the inheritance would go to any blood relatives upon her death… if not hers, then her husband's. Her husband's son could create an online identity to keep track of Mary's marital status from time to time, maybe even keep her single, if he was lucky enough. Why abandon the project? Apparently, the son didn't realize just how much time it would occupy; it really was a rather ridiculous long-term plan, worthy of a 13-year-old. And it was a good bet that Mary was highly unlikely to get married in any case.

He could provide her with absolute proof. He had only to trace the point of origin of the original server, and the exact location of her step-son. It would make for an interesting entry for his blog, on emails and their relation to crime. But even proving it beyond a doubt did not guarantee Mary Sutherland would choose to believe him.

He would assure her that Angela was safe from harm, but was unable to move to London. Perhaps that she regretted abandoning her, but it was for both their sakes? If she never knew it was, in fact, a deception, this brief love affair might make Mary feel more desirable, confident, encourage her to expand her horizons a bit? He would suggest she take legal precautions to ensure her inheritance would be passed on to anyone she might establish a long-term relationship with, regardless of official marriage status.

Yes, he would say nothing about Angela's true identity. He composed an email.


	4. Rejection

John wanted his laptop back. He had been in the middle of a rather interesting piece about vitamin absorption when Sherlock had grabbed it right out of his hands and stormed off, muttering something about idiots. Not that that type of behavior was even remotely unusual, especially during a case (Case-Mode Sherlock and Non-Case-Mode Sherlock were two entirely different creatures... as was Experiment Sherlock and Non-Experiment Sherlock). The author had been claiming multivitamins were actually harmful to your health. Of course, a well-rounded diet was best, but he had thrown in his lot with a man who neither ate heathfully nor regularly, so John had been considering advocating supplementation in pill form. He sighed.

Sherlock.

He had done his best to convince the man he wasn't going anywhere, and he suspected Sherlock was finally believing it, though getting inside his head remained as difficult as ever. Today, Sherlock had been lost in thought since breakfast, and John had attempted to occupy himself with the paper, the laptop, a random paperback novel...allowing him sufficient space for Sutherland case. Something about it must have been unexpectedly puzzling; John had thought it a rather straightforward bit of internet fraud, but clearly he was missing some crucial element which had made it far more complex.

John's thoughts drifted yet again to a recent conversation about their somewhat sporadic, but perfectly reasonable, sex life. He thought Sherlock was finally coming round to the fact that there were more important aspects to their relationship, and a lack of interest in sex for much of the time did not constitute a serious threat. Sherlock somehow still managed to read him like a book, knowing when he wanted a little more physical contact (now a bit fewer and father between with age, he admitted) and he provided it with consummate skill and pride. It was always a display of affection rather than lust, which was why it caught John so off guard to see Sherlock crawl in bed next to him that night, erect from the start, needy, wanting, and more than a bit insecure.

"John. I'm... "

"Yes, I see."

"I'm not sure what course of action to take."

"What?"

"I mean, it doesn't want to just recede. It ... well, I should say "I", not "it", I suppose. I'm... I want this impulse to stop. I hate being ruled by this need."

John was momentarily confused. Lust was always welcomed in his book, being taken over by the sheer force of it, the surge of power. He knew that seemed to be the very thing Sherlock despised, and it was always a bit hard to get his mind around that fact.

"Do you want it over with? Do you just want to come?"

"I don't mind the initial phase, when it feels kind of warm and, well, good, but then it gets insistant and demanding and it just won't stop."

John tried hard not to interject, to just listen.

"It's not me anymore."

"What do you normally do, then? When this happens?"

"Ignore it."

"And when you can't ignore it anymore?"

"Apply physical stimuli until release."

"OK, so a wank. A good wank then. And you won't do that because?"

Sherlock stopped. Well... because... because...

"Because you enjoy sex, and I have, a fully erect and ready to use tool designed specifically for that purpose. And..." Sherlock had nothing else to say.

"And you think it should be used. For that purpose."

"Shouldn't it?"

"Well, that depends. Let's assume you don't have a quite impressive, insistant hard-on. What do you like to do? Sexually."

"To see you react."

"And that is erotic for you, pleasing to you?"

"Yes. Pleasantly so, not overwhelmingly so."

John thought about how to phrase his next question. "Do you ever like to feel overwhelmed?"

"Like to? No. Not at all. Though it's effective in getting it over and done with."

"OK, so this taking apart and putting back together stuff... not for you. OK. Well, so, with me, it's fine. To do that."

"So I have observed," Sherlock smiled.

"With you, it's not."

"Correct."

"So- you don't do it. Normally. And when you feel this urge, what is it... uh... telling you to do?"

"To release this tension, and get back to normal quickly."

"Ok.. so.. I'm sorry if I'm missing something, Sherlock, but this seems simple. Just do that. Take care of it the way you usually would."

"I shouldn't be more interactive since.. since we are in a relationship?"

"Since when does being in a relationship with me make you have do new things that don't interest you. Besides cleaning the fridge on occasion. If intercourse isn't your thing, then don't feel obligated to do it. I am perfectly satisfied in other ways. Perfectly. Satisfied." John planted a kiss on his lips.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "It's an opportunity. A fairly rare one."

"Not for me. I am perfectly fine with what we have. I want to come, and I want you to be involved in the process somehow because that makes it infinitely better. That's about it. That's all I require."

"Are you implying that intercourse is no better for you than masturbating while thinking of me?"

"No. To have you there, to have your touch on my skin, is much, much better than using my imagination."John shifted a bit . "Uh, yeah, I'd say one is definitely better than the other."

"And how you have me is irrelevant?"

"Well, no, it's actually very relevant. I like it when you like what you're doing."

Sherlock smiled. It was entirely up to him, then. Did he want this? This time it was John who read Sherlock.

"Oh, no. No, this is on me, too. I don't know if I feel like being an experiment tonight, Sherlock. I haven't decided on that yet. This is not just about you getting to put your parts to the best use, you know. I'm more than a little bit involved here."

"It's not as if I'll frequently have this opportunity, John. Spontaneous and lasting erections remain unusual for me. And it's not as if it's something I don't want to do."

"In theory," John replied calmly. "In theory it's something you are intrigued by. It seems practical. More to the point, I think, it seems like what you think I want."

"It is rather the ultimate expression of unification."

John ignored that statement.

"I'll solve this dilemma, Sherlock. I don't want to do it. I don't want to go through that again. Not that you haven't changed since the last time. I just don't want to, risk, putting you through a repeat."

"John, I am completely capable.."

"I'm sure you're capable and competent and proficient and everything else you would need to be. I , however, am not sure that I am, ok? It's not worth it."

"John..."

"I said before that I would think about it, and I have."

"It's for you, John."

"No it isn't. It's for you to prove your mastery. I've been used for that purpose a few too many times, and I don't think I am ready right now. Just because your body is... there, doesnt mean my mind is there. Call me selfish."

"You are selfish. I can't do this without you."

"I'm not rejecting you, Sherlock, I am rejecting the act."

"Are you now?" Sherlock looked doubtful, rising from the edge of the bed.

"I am most definatelly not rejecting you. So, come over here if you like." He lifted the covers in invitation.

"So, Captain John H. Watson is not going to be pounding me into the mattress tonight," Sherlock said, as he turned and left the room.

John just sat and stared. It seemed like that had been ages ago. It never should have happened...that night. John was struck by the unfairness of the statement, and he would have been furious if it wasn't for the fact that it was absolutely true. He had said yes. He had said "at your service". He had said he would never get tired of anything to do with Sherlock and sex. And it was still true. He wasn't tired of him in the least. Just looking at the man made ...things happen... and that was before, wasn't it? Was he being unfair, judging what Sherlock was and wasn't capable of? It wasn't him though, it was John. John who was not willing to risk all they had just for some unnecessary, extra degree of closeness. Hurting Sherlock. Being rejected. Having him turn away from him after it was over and done with.

John headed to the kitchen and peeked in at Sherlock, who was lying on the sofa, head buried in the cushions, motionless. John decided to forgo the tea and return to his room.

About ten minutes later, Sherlock came up with two steaming cups. "That wasn't exacty playing fair, was it?" he asked.

"I wasn't tired of you, Sherlock. Not at all. But.."

"I knew it wouldn't be possible...I knew it back then. Knew you couldn't give your body without your heart, but I asked it of you anyway."

"I think you already had my heart."

"I suspected I did. But you didn't have mine yet. You do now." he said quietly. "And my body, and everything else. And I won't risk hurting you either."

John laid his hand on Sherlock's chest. "You've come very far, but it's not worth it. Not right now, at least. Not this soon."

Sherlock nodded, with an unspoken sadness. "I have to respect that."

"Yes, you do."


	5. Absolutely Perfect

"Can I stay here?"

John's voice was rough, as he fought to keep his emotions in check. "Of course, Sherlock. Of course you can stay here."

"No, John. I mean, can I stay here...while I...address this need."

"Oh. Stay. Here. With...with me. Yes." John also nodded, because he suddenly wasn't sure if he knew how to communicate properly at all; his brain felt like a racing engine suddenly slammed into reverse. He barely managed to tell himself to move to the side, to make room for Sherlock next to him.

Sherlock slid into bed, his dressing gown still loosely wrapped around his body, his eyes on John. He ran his fingers down his own chest, sliding over the silken fabric, then moved his left hand along his hips to rest at the bulge in the fabric, letting breath in and a barely perceptible groan out.

It wasn't barely perceptible to John, who had turned toward Sherlock and was watching him with every fiber of his being as he undid the belt, keeping the fabric draped over half of him and letting the other half slide off. Sherlock then wrapped the belt around his hand several times and ran the fabric along his exposed side, across his stomach and his chest before unwrapping it and snaking it behind his neck to the other side of his body. It was an amazingly sensuous display, one John couldn't help but be surprised to see from a man who seemed to have so little concern for his body. He continued to pull it down his chest and stomach and over his already hard cock, letting out another soft groan at the sensation of cool silk gliding across hot skin. He covered his erection again and traced his fingers along the outside of the fabric, closing his eyes.

"John, would you kiss me?"

John carefully placed his hands on either side of Sherlock's head and leaned in to kiss him softly, the sweetest, gentlest kiss he could possibly manage, but when Sherlock responded to the sensation of their meeting lips by arching his back before pushing himself against John's mouth, it awakened an unexpected urgency. Sherlock opened his mouth and John thrust his tongue in deeply. He had tentatively placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, only to have Sherlock drag it down to his robed chest, rising and falling with increasingly labored breath. John could feel the man's heartbeat, as his hand was held firmly in place.

"Oh God... I..."

"Then it's all right, the contact? Just a bit?"

"All right? Not... the words...I would use...Sherlock," John. "More like... fucking hell, yes."

Sherlock opened his eyes to look at John, and, as usual, his gaze made John weak. God, sometimes he felt like that man's eyes on him...truly on him... was all the stimulation he'd ever really need.

Sherlock was still slowly tracing the outline of his erection while staring at John, and John broke eye contact to carefully study each pulsing movement of rushing warmth. He wanted to reach out and touch him, but instead, turned that impulse to his own body, leaning over to the bedside table to grab lubricant and hastily apply it before reaching into his pants to touch himself, his other hand remaining on Sherlock's chest. He left the bottle between them.

"J...John," Sherlock gasped, his eyes on John while stroking himself through the fabric and rocking his hips into his hand, revelling in the friction. "Oh... oh, John." He buried his face where John's shoulder and arm joined, burrowing into his body and releasing his hold on his hand. "Mmmmaaaagh!" He grimaced, and tensed his muscles, as if fighting against the sudden increase in sensation.

Watching Sherlock, feeling the movement of his body as he pushed his forehead further into John's shoulder, sent John into overdrive as he grabbed himself, pumping hard.

Sherlock took the bottle and coated his fingers before trailing them along his perineum and the underside of his cock. He applied some more before shifting his focus back to himself, inserting a finger and concentrating on the muscle contracting around it. Each time it clenched he let out a groan, increasing in volume and in need. He rested his head on the hollow of John's shoulder again.

John increased his pace, his hand moving faster, making slick noises as the lube mixed with pre-come. He came hard and fast. Then John ran his fingertips lightly across Sherlock's shoulder blades, gently pulling his focus away from the intensity he must have been feeling. Sherlock breathed deeper now, steadily, as a meditative calm seemed to wash over him just before being broken by a shuddering breath, a tensing of his body and a soft cry.

Sherlock seemed happier with each passing moment, as his mind returned to its usual functioning. He turned to John, about to proclaim that absolutely perfect, then abruptly stopped.

"What is it?"

"Not important, Sherlock."

"Yes, it is. Whatever you are thinking, you don't want me to know it, so, therefore, I need to know it."

John sighed. "Well... OK...ummm... when we were kids, Harry and I went to a fair. She won this stuffed crocodile, or lizard or something, at the ring toss, I think it was...and she loved it... and I was holding it for her while she ate some cotton candy so it wouldn't get all sticky. So, we passed by this rollercoaster with this huge loop and I wanted to go on it so badly, only Mum had said we had to stick together, so I convinced her to go with me. Well... I tried to convince her. In the end, I pretty much ended up threatening the crocodile." John smiled weakly. "I told her it would be fun...pointed out how all the other kids her age were waiting in line..." John looked embarrassed.

"Glossing over the fact that in our afterglow you are comparing me with a young child, who also happens to be your _sister_..."

"OK, OK, yeah, you are the one who insisted. I was thinking about how miserable she was after, and how I had thought it was amazing, and how I loved the rush of adrenaline, and the drop in your gut on that first hill, and ... yeah... can I be done now? I'm embarrassed enough."

"Good."

"Yeah...great."

"No, truly. That's honesty. That's good."

John paused. "I suppose it is. You OK? "

"Yes. Now I am. Absolutely perfect."


End file.
